


Irresponsible

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Choking, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established Relationship, Hate Sex, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s always a wait between these visits -- Shizuo has to be desperate before the need overwhelms his pride, before he can muster the restraint to knock at Izaya’s door instead of pounding against it." Shizuo has a very specific need that Izaya is as helpful as he always is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irresponsible

Izaya keeps Shizuo waiting.

Shizuo can’t even blame him. He’s full of frantic energy, the anxiety that has been building in him for weeks -- nearly a month now -- without the relief that he has come here looking for. It’s always a wait between these visits -- he has to be desperate before the need overwhelms his pride, before he can muster the restraint to knock at Izaya’s door instead of pounding against it. He’s not sure if it’s the gentleness of the sound that tips the other off, if maybe he can predict Shizuo’s behavior in this as easily as he seems to predict the movements of everyone else in the city. It’s true that this is a particularly human behavior for him, far distanced from the usual feral rage Izaya elicits in the blond, and whatever witchcraft Izaya has at his disposal likely works as well at this as anything else.

Shizuo sits down after the first few minutes, slouching against where the wall meets the floor in the corridor outside Izaya’s apartment. Lighting a cigarette is useless to calm himself, but it will fill the space with the smell of the smoke, and even coming here as a supplicant Shizuo can’t resist this small jab at Izaya’s calm.

He’s not looking up when the door opens so softly he doesn’t even hear it. He’s looking at the end of the cigarette, cupping his hand around the end to hold the flame steady, and it’s only that he’s already as tight-wound as he possibly can be that he doesn’t jump when Izaya says, “You can do what you like in your own space but I’d appreciate you refraining from smoking outside  _my_  apartment.”

He’s lounging against the edge of the doorframe when Shizuo glares up at him, calm and relaxed and smiling such a knowing smirk it’s all Shizuo can do to keep from lunging at him. But there’s relief in him to match the rush of instinctive hate, a pathetic desperate sort of relief, because Izaya’s appearance means that what Shizuo needs is on the way, is within reach now. So he doesn’t reach out to start a fight, doesn’t even finish lighting the cigarette; he stuffs it back in his pocket without crumpling it, pushes to his feet to offer a growl without the force to back it up into a threat, and when Izaya smirks and gestures him inside with a grand wave of his arm Shizuo grits his teeth and steps inside.

He’s always surprised by how empty the space is. It’s like a model apartment, the furniture modern and far more stylishly arranged that Shizuo’s own too-small home, but there’s too much empty space, like no one really lives here at all. Except for the stacks of papers cluttered around the desk and the wall full of books and binders, the room could be owned by a realtor rather than an actual real human being.

Not that Shizuo is all that concerned with Izaya’s humanity, anyway, nor does he care about the other’s living room. He’s making for the stairs instead, stomping up them harder than he ought to while he demands, “Is Namie here?”

“What if she was?” Izaya asks from the doorway. There’s the sound of the door closing as he pushes it shut, and Shizuo doesn’t need to look back to feel that he’s being trailed, Izaya’s gaze like a touch hot at the back of his neck. “Would that even stop you, Shizu-chan?”

“ _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo grates, pivoting at the top of the stairs to growl down at the other. He’s leaning in close, near enough that he’d headbutt Izaya except that the other leans far back, well past the point of balance, until only his grip on the railing is keeping him from falling right back down the curving staircase.

“Don’t be coy,” Izaya says without straightening. “It doesn’t suit you, you know.”

Shizuo chokes irritation, rage he can’t get traction on for the ache in his body, and if he could let the fury go to burn off this sticky-sweet want in his veins he would. But it doesn’t work, he knows from experience, and by now the desire is like a spiderweb, the want so heavy even his spitting curses die on his tongue and he turns away instead of crushing Izaya’s nose or cheekbone with his fist. The laugh behind him grits his teeth but he doesn’t turn back around, just reaches to tug his uniform tie loose as he shoves the door to the bedroom open and steps into the almost-familiar space.

The bedroom is even less human than the living room. There are no bookshelves here, no desks to hold the necessary connections to the outside world, just a bed as perfectly untouched as it has been every time Shizuo sees it. It’s like an offer and a taunt rolled into one, a perfect canvas upon which to vent his impotent rage. The tie goes into the corner of the room, forgotten before it lands, and Shizuo’s hand closes on the clean lines of the sheets and yanks, drags the blankets and neat-folded sheets up into a mess with one quick motion. Izaya heaves a pointed sigh from behind him but Shizuo doesn’t turn, just pulls until he’s down to the rumpled white of the bottom sheets, the ones so cold he would believe they’ve never been touched by any human skin before his.

“You really are like an animal,” Izaya says, and he’s much closer than Shizuo expected, nearly at the blond’s shoulder instead of back by the door. Shizuo turns fast, arm swinging out on reflex, and Izaya ducks the blow and he’s close, too close, he’s grabbing at Shizuo’s vest and shoving before the blond has recovered his footing. There’s a moment of freefall, panic too deeply rooted in instinct to overcome, and by the time Shizuo’s shoulders sink into the soft of the mattress his fingers are closed in desperate fists at Izaya’s shirt, dragging the other down with him. Izaya lands against him, the minimal weight of his body still enough to knock Shizuo breathless, and he’s pushing Shizuo’s hand off in the first stunned moment of silence, tugging the buttons of the blond’s vest open while Shizuo is still blinking himself back into oxygen.

“Fuck you,” he finally manages, though the words lack their usual force absent the violence inherent under his skin. Izaya doesn’t react beyond a purring laugh, pushes Shizuo’s vest open and tugs his white shirt free of his pants, and Shizuo can feel his body reacting with all the heat he hasn’t been able to muster for anger in days. He takes a breath, short and choking, and shuts his eyes as Izaya laughs, drops an arm over his face so he doesn’t have to see the other’s smile.

The arm does nothing to shut out the sound of Izaya’s voice, unfortunately. Shizuo can hear the sound of his smile on his words, can feel his teeth gritting in miserable tolerance as Izaya says “There’s no need to get so desperate every time,” as his fingers twist Shizuo’s belt buckle open, tug rough at the fastenings of the other’s pants. “You always know where to find me, I’m sure I could fit you into my schedule.”

Shizuo groans, intending it as rejection, but Izaya’s fingers slide down into the open front of his slacks, the other’s palm presses hard against him, and he’s arching up instead, aching desperation burning him hot and hard before he’s even made it close to what he wants.

“Or is it just that you hate this that much?” Izaya’s fingers are sliding farther, invasive and satisfying at once, all Shizuo’s restrained want rocking him up against that pressure like the animal Izaya likes to call him in truth. “That you have to be aching and panting for it before you’ll admit to yourself you want it?”

“If I came any sooner I’d kill you,” Shizuo grates without lifting his hand. “I’d throw you right through those nice glass windows you have instead of a heart.”

Izaya laughs, the sound sharp and hot on his tongue. “Verbal sparring isn’t your strong suit,” he points out, sliding his hand back so he can grab handfuls of the fabric at Shizuo’s hips, drag down with no consideration at all for the way the fabric catches and burns the other’s skin. Shizuo hisses, arches up as much as he can, and then Izaya is pulling his shoes free too, stripping his pants and boxers down off over his feet and leaving him in just his shirt and opened vest.

“Though I suppose it’s your strength that is your strong suit, after all,” he muses. “Back,” the order coupled with a smack at Shizuo’s hip that is as condescending as the tone the other has adopted.

Shizuo can feel the burn under his skin, humiliation hot and as painful as the ache low in his stomach, but it’s the almost-nausea he’s been carrying for days that wins out. He moves, slides back across the sheets, spreads his legs wide in an attempt to preempt the implication of Izaya’s orders, to reclaim his agency by the speed of his motion.

“Ah, there’s the Shizu-chan I like,” Izaya says, the words warm and sticky on his tongue, and Shizuo can’t help it. His arm comes up, his fingers closing bruising at Izaya’s skinny shoulder to throw the other bodily sideways. Unfortunately the bed is wide enough that he just lands at the soft of the mattress, laughs with a sound like broken glass hitting the ground. Shizuo can see his face, now, the manic shine in his eyes and the white edge of his teeth, but even though his hand is forming into a fist he doesn’t let it fly, lets it fall useless to the sheets while Izaya waits for a further reaction.  
“Goodness,” he says after a moment, finally looking away so he can reach up and under one of the pillows at the edge of the bed. “Have you learned restraint at last, Shizu-chan?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Shizuo says, carefully and clearly, like the vicious dig of the words on his tongue will give him some sort of satisfaction. “I’m going to kick you down the stairs and break all your fucking bones individually.”

“Yes, you are certainly motivating me to be gentle,” Izaya points out. He’s rocking back, balancing over his knees while he spills lube from the bottle in his hand out across his fingers, and Shizuo doesn’t want to be as hard as he is and he doesn’t want to go breathless at the sight, but he can help neither of those reactions any more than he can fight the sweep of his rage when it comes for him. He’s spilling damp in anticipation, liquid soaking and staining the loose edge of his shirt, and Izaya’s  _watching_  him, purring amused delight as he crawls back down the bed to kneel between Shizuo’s legs. Shizuo wants to look away, can’t manage to do it, not with the vulnerability of his bare skin and the threat of Izaya’s smile so close to his exposed legs. He tips his chin instead, gives the best glare he can manage, and Izaya’s smile goes wider, turns into almost-a-laugh before he catches himself and twists it into a pout instead.

“Aww, Shizu-chan, don’t you  _want_  this?” Cool fingers touch the inside of Shizuo’s legs, drag up to leave a slick path in their wake, like Izaya is coated in slime. But Shizuo’s still hard,  _painfully_  hard, and it’s not the glancing touch of Izaya’s other hand against him that he wants.

“Don’t  _fuck_  with me, Izaya-kun,” Shizuo demands, or tries to demand. It’s supposed to be an order, it’s definitely  _not_  supposed to crack into a plea in the middle, and his closes his mouth hard on the sound, starting to flush with furious self-consciousness as Izaya smirks again.

“Yeah,” he says, and “I know what you came here for,” and then he’s moving all at once, too fast for Shizuo to react, his fingers coming out to settle against the blond’s throat like they were meant to be there. The tension in Shizuo’s body goes slack like it’s been cut with a knife, drops him boneless with heat over the bed, and even Izaya’s fingers at his leg are going hot with intention instead of cool as they are in fact.

“What  _would_  the people of Ikebukuro think?” Izaya muses. He’s not even pressing hard, hardly touching Shizuo at all, but he’s shifting his fingers like he’s fitting his grip into place and Shizuo can’t breathe more for anxious anticipation than for true constriction yet. “Heiwajima Shizuo, the strongest man in Ikebukuro, voluntarily offering his throat to me.” His hand goes still, only his thumb sliding in what feels eerily like a caress. “What would your  _brother_  think?”

“ _You_ \--” Shizuo starts, instinct in this one thing enough to overcome the fire in his veins. He starts to sit up, forcing himself upright by sheer strength advantage -- and Izaya’s fingers tighten, whip-quick, pressing in at the sides of his neck so his palm digs in to cut off Shizuo’s airway as quick and clean as a door slamming. Shizuo jerks at the force, mouth working soundlessly on the air very suddenly denied him, and when Izaya shoves he goes back to the bed, made weak more by the heat tingling through his fingers than by the actual lack of air.

“Calm down,” Izaya says. His hand is still tight, his voice coming at an infinite distance past the roar of satisfaction in Shizuo’s ears. His other hand is moving, too, slick fingers pushing past Shizuo’s entrance to stretch aching against the other’s body, but Shizuo is only distantly aware of that, the hurt of the motion and the friction transmuting into the purr of pleasure under his skin. “We both know this only works because you’re letting me do this.”

It’s a taunt in and of itself, the more effective because it’s true. But Shizuo’s starting to tremble, now, his entire body flushing hot in waves of heat as his vision gets hazier and his chest starts to ache with need, and there’s no space anywhere in that for the half-hearted reply he might be able to muster in different circumstances.

Izaya lets his hold loosen a moment later, before Shizuo is really in any danger of unconsciousness. His lungs gasp for air he’s not sure he wants, the hotter flare of the heat in his body cools to tolerable, and Izaya’s still moving in him, thrusting his fingers in as deep as he can reach with a rhythm as steady and unconcerned as if he does this every day.

“Feel better?” he says, lets his fingers drag away and down Shizuo’s shirt. Shizuo whimpers faintly at the loss, and Izaya laughs sharp. “I know you don’t,” he answers on the blond’s behalf, curls his fingers into a careful hold on the other’s aching cock. Shizuo’s breath catches at the friction but it’s not enough, it’s only more fuel to the fire burning him from the inside out, even when Izaya tightens his grip and strokes up experimentally. It’s just friction, a burn as taunting and unsatisfying as the motion of Izaya’s fingers working him open, until Shizuo is flinching as much from the ache of the sensation as from the pleasure.

He holds out for a while. It’s impossible to say how long, exactly, when his head is spinning for desire and his entire body is taut enough he imagines he can hear his bones creaking under the tension in his muscles. But Izaya doesn’t reach for his throat again, just keeps touching Shizuo far more gently than the blond wants, and when the knot in his stomach starts to become a strain Shizuo shuts his eyes, and flinches, and grates out a “ _Please_ ” that sounds exactly as agonized as he feels in his own body.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya purrs, “I thought you’d never ask.” His hand strokes up once more, dragging another burst of unsatisfying sensation sparking into Shizuo’s veins, and then his grip slides free and he’s reaching for the blond’s throat again, even the glancing touch of his sticky fingers more immediately gratifying than all the more usual means of pleasure he has been offering. Shizuo arches off the bed without thinking, pushes in against the firm press of delicate fingers, and Izaya’s laugh comes with pressure,  _finally_. The relief of ceding control is so strong in Shizuo he barely feels Izaya’s fingers sliding out of him, doesn’t hear the sound of the other opening his jeans one-handed at all. That doesn’t matter, it’s not like it’s a surprise; this isn’t the first time they’ve done this, he knows how this goes. He doesn’t offer resistance when Izaya shoves his knees wider; the angle aches into his hips but it doesn’t matter, all that matters is the tension in the fingers pressing into his throat and threatening his airway.

Izaya doesn’t pushes harder right away. Shizuo knows this too, that after the initial teasing it’s going to be a slow build to the final satisfaction he wants. That’s okay, he can see it coming now, waits with his breathing going hoarse with expectation as much as pressure while Izaya fits himself into place, lines himself up with one hand while resting his weight on the other, the one curled against Shizuo’s neck like a brace. It takes him a minute to get himself into position, a minute of Shizuo’s vision going blurry with heat and his breathing sticking hard on the obstruction of Izaya’s fingers; then there’s a second hand, Izaya’s thumbs falling into line over each other, and as he thrusts forward he starts to choke Shizuo in earnest.

There’s something satisfying about the pressure at his throat that Shizuo has never been able to frame, can’t usually even understand except in moments like this, with his body prickling with the friction from Izaya’s movements into him and his thoughts goes white-hazed with pleasure and breathlessness both. It’s not that he’s in danger, or at least not anything he hasn’t voluntarily put himself in; this is different than the razor edge of Izaya’s knives, or the deadly promise of the teeth in his smile. Shizuo  _could_  reach up, could break Izaya’s fingers or shatter his elbow without any real effort, even, and in a way there’s a bizarre sort of trust Izaya is demonstrating in believing that he won’t get himself horrifically injured from this. But Shizuo doesn’t  _want_  to stop him, and he knows that and that means Izaya knows it. He can’t do this to himself on his own and there’s no one else who would even hear his request without flinching in horror. But Izaya doesn’t flinch away from it; he smiles, shows all his teeth like he’s delighted every time Shizuo comes begging to his door, and when Shizuo’s breathing starts to hiss with desperation it’s Izaya’s laugh that drowns out the sound.

Izaya is very good at this. Shizuo can feel the steadiness in his fingers, the apparent capriciousness in his movements timed just right so the blond can gasp for air right as his vision goes completely, can bring back his surroundings so he remembers who he is, where he is, who he’s  _with_ , can feel the ache of unsatisfied desire pulsing like a drumbeat in his veins before Izaya pushes down again and cuts off the thought while it’s not quite formed. There’s a rhythm of desperation in his veins, flaring hotter with every squeeze of Izaya’s fingers and tensing Shizuo’s hands into fists on the sheets, but far more valuable is the blur at his thoughts, the warmth flooding out into him like a drug until everything else fades off, his anger and his dangerous strength and all the things he aches to protect; there’s just the burn in his chest and the tension at his throat, pressure urging him towards the edge when Shizuo isn’t even sure how far he’ll fall.

Somewhere someone is talking, there’s a pattern of sound that must be speech, that has a high slide to the words that is familiar, that ought to elicit a reaction in Shizuo besides gratitude, besides the oncoming relief. But his eyes are shut, or maybe he’s just not seeing anything clearly anymore, and he can’t muster anything but melting heat, the relief of giving in, of relinquishing everything important to someone else to take care of for a moment. The words are coming faster, now, falling like raindrops, and Shizuo’s mouth is open on no breath and no words and everything is shuddering through him, hot and desperate and so strong he’s sure his bones are giving way before it, until his attention to the present flickers out, and the ache in his chest and the tension along his spine are a single moment of white-hot pleasure and nothing at all matters anymore.

It’s the coughing that brings him back up to consciousness. The pressure at his throat is gone, only leaving the ache of bruises that will sit just under the high collar of his uniform, and he can breathe again, huge reflexive gasps of air that tear his abused throat and leave him rolling sideways to gasp and cough against unfamiliar sheets. Izaya’s breathing hard over him, pulling back so Shizuo can feel how sticky his thighs are with the other’s come to match the smear of his own over his stomach, how slick his whole body is with overheated desperate sweat. He’ll need a shower sometime soon, water turned up hot to rinse the texture of Izaya’s skin off his, but right now even that doesn’t bother him. He’s too heavy with relief, the constant building tension in his body finally given way to satisfaction he only ever feels right after these interludes.

He’ll have to come back, in a week or a month or a year, whenever the weight of responsibility becomes too much to bear and he has to leave it in the most dangerous hands he knows. But for now he’s satisfied, heavy and so warm he doesn’t even snap at Izaya’s huff of resignation when he shuts his eyes and lets the pleasure lull him into a drowse.

After what he’s gone through to achieve this calm, Shizuo thinks he can afford to appreciate it for a while.


End file.
